


a heart’s rhythm, a sense of stars

by aceofdiamonds



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 5+1 Things, M/M, Quidditch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-04
Updated: 2016-02-04
Packaged: 2018-05-18 06:21:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5901628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aceofdiamonds/pseuds/aceofdiamonds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>five times oliver wood played against marcus flint and one time they played on the same side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a heart’s rhythm, a sense of stars

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Ритм сердца, чувство звезд](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10326077) by [Rassda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rassda/pseuds/Rassda)



> i know that oliver doesn’t actually play in his first match after getting hit by a bludger but i’m conveniently forgetting about that. title is from a poem by auden which i randomly came across while i was seeing if any carly rae jepsen lyrics would fit and failing miserably

 

 

 

(one)

 

The Saturday after Oliver turns four his dad takes him to the park along the road from their house. Oliver clutches his broomstick in his clammy little hand, excitement sweating out of him as he jumps along the path to where the collection of children are standing with their brooms and their Mini Bludgers, surrounded by trees and their parents' protection charms. He's been coming to watch the matches since before he can remember, perched high on his dad's shoulders to give him an pheonix-eye view of the action, and now, now he's getting to play.   
  
"Hi, Oliver," Mr Cunningham, the coach, says, walking over to the two of them. "This is your first time, isn't it?"  
  
"I was four last week," Oliver says proudly, his answer in the way he puffs out his chest and his lip wobbles a bit with nerves.   
  
"Did you have a good day?"  
  
Oliver nods furiously. He had been given the new broom he's holding so closely now and his sisters had made him a cake in the shape of a Quaffle. It had been _great_.  
  
"That's good," Mr Cunningham nods in agreement, exchanging a smile with Oliver's dad over Oliver’s head. "And now onto the game." He gestures out to the field where half-size goal posts have been set up, a cluster of children around each side, one half blue, the other red. "You'll be on the blue team this week, alright?"   
  
"Like the Tornados," Oliver points out, already raring to go. The Tornados are his favourite team. And now he's going to be just like them.   
  
"Like the Tornados," his dad laughs. "Away you go, then. I'll be watching from over there," he says, pointing to the thicket of trees where an assortment of parents have Conjured chairs and tables. "Have fun, Oliver."   
  
And, oh, he does. Because he's the newest and the youngest, he gets last pick for positions which leaves him with the Keeper. He's never been the Keeper before when he's played with his sisters but once he's hovering a few feet into the air and he catches the first Quaffle thrown in his direction he finds he quite enjoys it.   
  
"Good catch, Oliver," an older girl says when he stops the red team from scoring a third goal, sending him a thumbs up. He blushes at the praise and almost fumbles the next catch, his fingers holding on to it at the last moment.   
  
He whoops, delighted with his luck.   
  
"Oi, that's cheating!"  
  
Oliver floats to the ground, landing with a thump. He twists to see an angry boy stamping across the grass towards him.   
  
"That was a goal!"  
  
"No it wasn't," Oliver replies stubbornly, because he had caught the Quaffle right in the tips of his fingers, it didn't even touch the hoop.   
  
"Was too," the boy argues, chucking his broom on the grass and coming right up to Oliver who takes a step back.   
  
The boy shoots out a hand and grabs at Oliver's t-shirt, shoving his face right up into his. Oliver stands his ground, frowning at this angry boy who is ruining his first day at Quidditch.  


“Hey!” Mr Cunningham blows his whistle. “Marcus!”

And the boy, Marcus, turns around, mouth fixed in a line, and says, in a tone wildly inappropriate for an adult, “I’m not even  _ doing _ anything.”

“You grabbed Oliver’s t-shirt!” a girl called Becky leaps to Oliver’s defense.   
  
“Didn’t,” Marcus argues back just as he finally loosens his hold on Oliver’s Tornados t-shirt.

“Did!” Becky insists, broom rising a few inches further in the air thanks to her indignation. 

It all gets settled eventually with a highly debated penalty to the red team which Oliver saves, again by the tip of his fingers, Marcus allowing this one with a scowl, and play goes on. 

When they get home after the match is over (blues beating reds narrowly by 10 points) Oliver tells his mum excitedly about the foul and the argument and how it felt like a  _ real life match,  _ even if the Snitch was a Charmed tennis ball with a gold Glamour.   
  


.

  
  
Oliver turns eleven in May and from then till September 1st he talks about little but playing Quidditch at Hogwarts. His parents and his sisters remind him that first years aren't allowed on the house teams but that doesn't mean he can't be excited about watching the older students play for the Cup, and anyway, he's definitely going to try out as soon as he's old enough.    


  
.

  
  
So the next year he goes along to try-outs with Sam from his dorm. Charlie Weasley's the captain this year, which Oliver feels is well-deserved after that stunning performance in the final against Hufflepuff last year, and Oliver knows he'll be fair. 

He’s so nervous on the day he bounces on the balls of his feet to the point that Sam has to tug him down by his elbow to stop him jumping on his broom and flying right back into the castle because he doesn’t know if he can take this pressure. 

“You’ll be fine, mate,” Sam tells him. It’s alright for Sam, he’s only here for a laugh, a bit of fun; he doesn’t care if he gets in or not. “Charlie knows you’re great.” 

“But someone else could be even better,” Oliver points out, rising up onto his toes to watch Charlie separate the Chasers and Beaters, all waving hands and shouting till he’s hoarse.

“Impossible,” Sam argues, because, loud snorer or not, he's the best. 

Eventually, after an agonisingly long wait, the Keepers are called forward and Oliver wishes Sam luck as he moves towards the goal posts and Sam waits behind with the other hopeful Beaters. 

His heart is fluttering around in his throat making it difficult to swallow his spit and so when Charlie says hi to him the most he can do is a strangled reply back, waving a hand as he flies to the hoops. 

It's fine when he gets up there. He loops around the hoops a couple of times to warm up as Charlie tries to assemble the Chasers into some judgeable formation. He's looking for an almost entirely new team, only himself and a Beater position filled. Even as he's up there, part of the try-out himself, Oliver can't wait to see the team he puts together. 

He's a part of that team, he realises a few minutes later when, high on relief and nerves, he's caught five out of five Quaffles and Charlie sends him a wink as he makes his way back over to the other two Keeper hopefuls, a burly sixth year and a third year Oliver thinks might be David from Hufflepuff’s big sister. 

Sam gets in too. He tackles Oliver in a one-armed hug as they make their way back up to the castle, glee and pride warring within them at being chosen for their team. “We did it, Olly!” Sam crows, arm still tight around Oliver’s neck. 

Oliver floats on that glee for the next week and a half, a manic grin on his face appearing at all hours of the day.

He's on the  _ team _ . 

 

.

 

"Marcus Flint is a Slytherin Chaser?" Oliver asks, leaning on his hand, all nonchalant, a fortnight before the opening match of the season against Gryffindor. "He wasn't on the team last year, was he?"

Ben shakes his head, a scowl forming. "Too young," and oh, that’s right. Oliver forgets they’re the same age sometimes. 

“You know him?”

“He lives near me,” is all Oliver says, laughing along when someone sarcastically says  _ lucky you _ .

“We used to play in the little leagues when we were wee,” Oliver adds.

“Yeah?” Charlie says, “Any tips on his playing?” 

But they haven’t played against each other since they were maybe eight or nine; Oliver imagines they’ve both probably changed a bit since then.

 

.  
  


 

(two)

 

Oliver’s stomach swoops with the adrenaline rush as he follows Charlie out onto the pitch. Sam is just behind him, talking non-stop in his ear, but Oliver isn't paying attention enough to listen, too focused on the buzz of the crowd around them and how different it feels to be the one on the pitch being cheered on instead of roaring in the stands. 

“I think I’m gonna throw up,” he mumbles back to Sam. 

“That's what I've been saying,” Sam whispers back and then he slaps Oliver on the back and Oliver realises everyone is kicking off and scrambles over his broom. “See you on the other side, Olly!”

He was wrong before. Flint’s playing hasn't changed much from when they were younger; he's the most aggressive player on the pitch, ducking and weaving between the Gryffindor Chasers so violently Gyer and Rose almost fall off their brooms. He throws the Quaffle to his fellow Chasers reluctantly, pelting up the pitch towards Oliver, hands reaching back for the catch which he then sends flying towards Oliver so quickly Oliver has to will himself not to flinch. 

But he does well. Oliver catches almost all of the Quaffles thrown his way and tries to not to feel too terrible about the ones he couldn't get to in time. 

They win. Narrowly. But it's a win and Oliver’s fingers are sliding all over his broom and he's exhausted and when Charlie flies over, Snitch clutched in his hand and fluttering manically, Oliver allows himself to be pulled into a victory hug, already jittery for more. 

“Well done, mate,” Charlie tells him, clapping a hand on his shoulder the way Sam had before. 

“Well done,  _ you _ !” Oliver replies, voice raising almost hysterically. “I didn't see your catch but --” because that's the thing with being part of the action, you miss the things you would've seen from the ground. “We won, Charlie!” he bursts excitedly. 

They've reached the rest of the team by now, a giant huddle of red bright in the middle of the pitch, and it's Sarah, a seventh year Chaser, who catches Oliver’s arm and pulls him into another hug before she laughs and tells him that Charlie’ll have them training even harder by Monday, no rest for the victors.

 

.

 

(three) 

  
The first time Oliver kisses Flint it's an accident. They're fourteen, too passionate in their post-match argument about fairness and then Oliver finds himself jostling Flint against the wall, still going on and on about that goal in the final minute just as Walsh had caught the Snitch, and then he's kissing Flint, pushing his mouth against his, if anything just to get him to shut up for five seconds.    
  
It's a terrifying second, one that stretches out on and on and on. Oliver contemplates pulling away but decides against it when he feels Flint's hand grip at his robes, like this might be something he’s not completely against and therefore the chances of Oliver getting punched drop by half. He feels Flint’s mouth open slightly and he plunges on ahead, doing whatever with his tongue and his lips and his teeth because he’s going to make the most of whatever the hell is going on.   
  
Oliver kissed Sarah Reid a couple of months ago and honestly, that kiss was a lot nicer than this one. Flint is really going for it now, an active participant in whatever the hell this is, and okay, it's alright, but their teeth keep clacking together and Oliver is pretty sure he'll have a bruise on his lip where Flint is tugging at it. That’s not to say Oliver isn’t enjoying it -- his heart is thumping faster than a Hippogriff and his hands are shaking where they fumble at the neck of Flint’s robes and he feels like he’s losing his breath over and over again, but he doesn’t want it to stop. 

His mind is galloping on in front of him faster and faster imagining what'll happen when this stops. Sure, Oliver's looked at Flint a little. When you realise you like boys just as much as you like girls you cast your eyes around and pick out who you might like to kiss, that's the done thing. After so much rivalry and the frequent stops between classes to argue some more Oliver's come to find Flint halfway decent. He has the muscles and his hair is always clean-looking and on those very rare instances when he smiles at something Montague or Pucey says and Oliver catches it he sees that there's something quite nice about his face. 

Of course this doesn't mean that he should be kissing Flint and it also doesn't meant that Flint should be kissing him back but it’s happening and honestly? He’s enjoying it. 

Flint pulls away after much longer than Oliver would have guessed. He pulls away and he stares at Oliver and then he pushes Oliver so he can step away from the wall before he drags a hand over his mouth. 

“You do that again, Wood,” he mutters, leaning in close, his bottom lip shiny from Oliver’s mouth, “and I’ll rip your bollocks off.” 

Which is a convincing threat, and so Oliver sinks back against the wall and watches Flint leave in an angry blur of silver and green while Oliver is left thoroughly-kissed and altogether confused. 

 

.  
  


 

It happens again. And again. And again. And so on. 

“This doesn’t mean anything, alright?” Flint always insists as he kisses along Oliver’s jaw, his hands burrowing under his clothes to reach his skin. And Oliver always nods, no of course not nothing at all, and kisses back harder, faster, his body hurtling away from him. 

He bites at Flint’s shoulder when they're fifteen and Flint’s hand twists on his dick just right and he almost says  _ Marcus _ instead of  _ Flint _ even though that's wrong wrong wrong. So he bites instead. 

“Tryin’ to eat me, Wood?” Flint snickers into the side of Oliver’s neck and then he’s kissing him, hot breaths flooding Oliver’s mouth and he can feel Flint  _ laughing _ and that’s how he knows they’ve both come a long way.

They’ve been doing this for over a year now, this meeting up in secret to kiss until Oliver’s jaw aches and his lips feel bruised. It’s changed slightly in that they don’t always limit it to kissing, both in the physical way of hands on dicks and sometimes mouths and in the sense that sometimes they talk. Their conversations don’t stray from Quidditch much but there have been times when one of them slips up and mentions their families or their friends or how they’re so unsure about whatever the fuck they’ve been doing for the last year and a bit in abandoned classrooms. Oliver feels like he knows Flint better know. He feels he knows him enough to like him,  _ really _ like him, and that’s not something he should really be doing, and so whenever one of them strays too close to the subject the other kisses them hard and they forget it. 

“I mean, you’re not bad for a Gryffindor,” Flint says, one night towards the end of their sixth year, and that’s almost an  _ i love you _ from Flint. “But you’re a Gryffindor.” 

And that sums up everything.

It seems too stupid and unbelievable, that their Houses could separate the two of them like they’re part of a star-crossed fairy tale, but that’s the way it is. 

 

.

 

(four)

 

It’s his last year at Hogwarts, his last year on the Gryffindor team, his last chance for the Cup under his captaincy, and he wants it so much he can’t sleep at night, he can’t concentrate in class. 

And then he gets it. 

He watches Harry snatch the Snitch from right under Malfoy’s hand and then it feels like everything is spinning around him and it’s all he can do to grab onto his team. 

The cup is heavy when Dumbledore hands it to him, that twinkle in his eye, because it’s been so fucking long since Gryffindor has been handed the cup, and look, they’ve done it. 

As the Gryffindors, the Ravenclaws, and the Hufflepuffs all flood the pitch, Oliver looks over at the Slytherins who are slinking off the pitch and back up to the castle. He turns his head away, uncaring, and pushes the cup into Harry’s hands, realising he’s crying a little and not giving a fuck about it. 

When he ducks out of the party later to meet Flint he's surprised that Flint shows up at all, but Oliver opens the door to the empty classroom they've been using on the sixth floor, and there he is, slouched against the wall and looking like part of his world has imploded. 

"Are you here to gloat?" he mutters, staying against the wall so Oliver has to go over to him. 

"Of course," Oliver grins. "I'm probably going to gloat about it for a few months. At  _ least _ ." 

Flint rolls his eyes but he doesn't look so bothered anymore. "It's that fucking Firebolt. It's not a fair game when it's involved." 

"Your whole team are on the next best thing," Oliver argues. Maybe now that he's captained the winning team of the cup and maybe now he's leaving Hogwarts his mum and dad will get him a new broom for his birthday. He won't try for a Firebolt, he'll have to wait a while for that, but maybe a Nimbus or even one of the latest Cleansweeps.

"Who fucking cares anymore?" Flint says then. He stares at Oliver, eyes dark. "That's us done."

"We should celebrate."

"Yeah? What d'you want to do, Wood?" And then Flint reaches for the back of Oliver's shirt and drags him in. 

George jumps on him when he makes his way back to the common room an hour later, an arm slung around his shoulders and a sharp grin on his face. “Away enjoying yourself?” he says, tipping him a huge wink. 

And it’s been the best day of Oliver’s life, winning the Cup, leaving on a high, and so he grins back, hand ruffling George’s hair. “Something like that, aye.”

That makes George laugh, delighted. Oliver knows he’s not always the easiest to get along with, his love and competitiveness of Quidditch clouding a lot of his personality for most of the year, but he loves the team he’s put together over the last three years and he’s going to miss them when he leaves. 

“The best way to celebrate,” George says, leaning in with a laugh. “We’re gonna miss you, Wood. I don’t think the next Captain is going to wake us at the crack of dawn every Saturday and where’s the fun in that?”

“It won you the cup,” Oliver reminds him, clapping his hand to George’s shoulder. 

And that makes George laugh again, that disbelieving laugh that Oliver’s been doing because with their luck they were never going to win but they're a great team, the best Oliver’s ever seen, and they got there in the end. It's just a little hard to believe still. 

“Gonna go see Harry,” Oliver says to George because in their first game of the season Harry fell a hundred feet and the thing he was most worried about was losing them the match. And then he trained himself to handle the Dementors and he blew everyone out of the park this afternoon. What a kid. Oliver’s going to miss what the team will do next year, how they'll grow, who’ll be training them. If he had to guess for McGonagall’s pick it would be Angelina; she's got the focus and the need Oliver’s been driving them with for years. But any of them will be great. He's leaving them in capable hands, any way it goes.

“You look a little emotional,” Harry says when Oliver reaches him. 

“We’ve deserved that Cup for years now,” Oliver replies, dropping into a chair beside him. His friend, Ron Weasley, shuffles out of the way for him, pushing his chess set along the table. Hermione Granger offers him a shy smile before turning back to the mountain of books beside her. This little group here have been living a different Hogwarts than the rest of them, Oliver thinks, and he's glad that he's helped give them a chance to cool off for a bit tonight. “Well done, Harry.”

Harry grins. “You've been a great Captain, Oliver, the best I’ve ever had.” 

“That means nothing when you've only had one,” Oliver laughs. He gets to his feet, catching Sam’s eye across the room. “I'm hoping to go pro -- I know it's early yet and you might have other ideas already but I've seen a lot of Seekers play, Harry, and you've got something special.” 

“Trying to leave with the team worshipping you forever, Olly,” Sam laughs when Oliver takes a bottle of Butterbeer out of his hands. He tips his chin to behind Oliver where Harry is sitting with Ron, his hands gesturing wildly, his face lit up in a brilliant grin as he rambles on about teams and the Cannons and possibilities. 

Oliver takes a swig of his Butterbeer, euphoria from this afternoon’s success washing over him again. He nudges Sam in the side, “Can't have them forgetting me.”

 

.  
  


 

Oliver and Flint lose contact for a while. It happens, that’s what Oliver tells himself. Hogwarts is this little bubble where everyone loses sense of the outside world and they live their lives as though everything begins and ends within the castle walls. It’s only when you step outside, permanently, not just for summer or Christmas, that you realise that everything out here is bigger and crazier and that you might think you’re in love with a Slytherin but that doesn’t mean shit in the wider world. 

Oliver gets recruited by Puddlemere United which, even three months in, still feels like a dream. He moves out of his parents’ house and out of Scotland, Apparating down to Dorset with his broom clutched in his hand and a bag over his shoulder. Down here everything is bigger, more exciting, and he misses Scotland so much but he feels so much more  _ free _ down here.

“Welcome to the team, Olly,” Isla, the Captain says to him on his first day. She’s so wee Oliver is three heads taller than her but she stands with her hands on her hips, smile fierce as she tells Oliver about their opening match against the Wimbourne Wasps, and Oliver’s seen her play, he knows how important size is for Seekers. She’s one of the best. “I’ve seen good things from you -- let’s keep that up for the start of the season, okay?” 

Oliver laughs. “I’ll try my best,” and he’s terrified but he’s so eager to get out there and play.

He kicks off and rockets up to the hoops on the South end of the stadium, looping around them a few times, dodging the Bludgers Kyle and Louise are whacking across the pitch, each Bludger spirally dangerously close to Oliver before one of the Beaters catches its orbit and hits it away. 

He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to the size, to the  _ scale _ of it all. It’s the same game that he played at Hogwarts but on a whole other level. The stunts that people pull here, the way they seem weightless on their broom, has Oliver flipping through playbooks in his flat, cross-legged on the bed, as he imagines someone looking up to him the way he has done to so many of the players he’s playing with or against now.

What’s different too is that more people  _ care _ . They’re tabloid headlines when they win or lose or when they go out for drinks after a big match and get a bit drunk on the walk home. There are speculations about transfers and Captain changes every other week with Quidditch analysts discussing the matches play-by-play. It’s a bigger world and with all of that comes the intensity and the heat that school matches didn’t. 

Out here Quidditch isn’t just something that’s played a few weekends a year to earn points for the House Cup; out here it’s a whole lifestyle. 

 

.

 

They play the Montrose Magpies in the final which Oliver knows is Flint’s team. He knows because the Magpies are constantly in the _Daily Prophet_ for their big wins and they’re in all the magazines for their charity work. Oliver’s not bitter or jealous or anything like that -- Puddlemere are doing great in the league, they’re in the final, see, and they do plenty for charity too, they even had Celestina Warbeck do a single for them a couple of years ago. No it’s nothing like that. It’s just that he’s seeing Marcus Flint’s face everywhere and Oliver’s always been an optimist and his heart’s always been too big and he’s not saying he and Flint are meant to be together but they ended abruptly and there was never any closure, so, yeah, Oliver wants to see him again.

 

.  
  


(five)

 

He rethinks that when the final is over and the Magpies are doing their victory lap around the pitch, the crowd screaming their name, their black banners high in the sky. They deserved it, they played a great game, both teams did. 

“You did well, Olly,” Isla shouts above the crowd, landing on the ground beside him. He should be going to get changed but he can’t look away from the seven figures swooping above him, their hands raised in triumph, their Cup shining on a suspended table in the centre of the pitch. 

“You too, Captain,” he replies, saluting and then laughing when she shoves at him. 

“Coming to the pub? We need to buy that lot a drink,” she says, jerking her head towards the Magpies who are starting to descend towards the Cup.

“Can we expect gloating?” Oliver asks, following the rest of the team into the changing rooms.

He gets various choruses of  _ yes _ and  _ of fucking course, mate, they’re the worst for it  _ and he finds himself looking forward to it. Hey, he might not have won but he got to the final in his first season as a professional player and he’s pretty fucking pleased that he made it through the season at all. 

 

.

 

In the tiny cubicle of the pub bathroom Oliver groans loudly, fumbling behind his back to move the handle digging into his spine, his hand moving back to twist in the material at the nape of Flint’s neck. He shifts, wriggles his body closer to Flint’s, pressing his hips against Flint’s. 

“Ye’ve never even said congrats yet,” Flint says, his voice raspy and desperate, that heat that’s crawling around inside of Oliver’s stomach clear when he maneuvers Oliver away from the door and up against the opposite wall. 

“Congrats,” Oliver breathes, mouth working over Flint’s jaw, intent on leaving a bruise the size of his fist on his neck, fuck what the teams will say when they leave. They both left for the bathroom simultaneously; they’ve thrown everything onto the table from the get go here. 

“Was nice seeing you again,” Flint mumbles, tipping his head back to encourage Oliver’s goal before he changes his mind and yanks Oliver back into a kiss, his tongue as messy and his lips as eager as when they were fourteen. “Nice beating you again.”

“Aye,” Oliver agrees, dropping his hand to Flint’s crotch and pressing just enough to make Flint swear and push his hips into his hand, “made a change.”

And Flint sniggers the way he always did and says, “Missed you, wanker.”

“You haven’t changed a bit, Flint,” Oliver says and then, dismissing his point, he kisses him again. He’s missed this too. 

“Your place or mine?” Flint asks when he pulls away. And then he grins and his smile is so sharp Oliver could reach out and cut his finger on the edges. “ _ Olly _ .”. 

“Shut up,” Oliver says weakly, dismissing his nickname with his middle finger. “C’mon. Let’s get out of here,  _ champ _ .”

 

.

 

(He ignores the catcalls they get when they return to the table and announce that they’re heading home. It’s hard with Isla whooping loudly and Flint winking lewdly at the Magpies but he gets home with his dignity mostly intact and Flint’s hand tight in his as they Side-Along and the rest of the night gets pushed to the side pretty fast. 

“How’s it feel to be fucking a champion?” Flint -- he wonders if now that they’re older he can call him Marcus now -- says as his hips slide against Oliver’s, his hands moving over his body, fingers leaving patches of heat across Oliver’s skin.

“Fucking magical,” Oliver moans, tilting his hips up against Flint’s and scrabbling for his wand for the charm he can’t remember through the fuzz of his brain. )

 

.

 

Oliver doesn't realise the war is over for a good fortnight or so after the death of You-Know-Who. He was there when Harry, his golden Seeker, had sent his own curse spinning back to him and he had seen the ground littered with dead Death Eaters but it takes Oliver a while to get his mind back from the feeling of being on edge for every second of the day. He's not a Muggleborn, he was never in immediate danger, but the fear of what was happening to everyone around him, the terror locked on the country, had followed him around constantly. 

Three months pass. Life stays mostly the same. People are calmer, no one is being murdered anymore, and Oliver can go to Quidditch practice without having to steel himself at the door for the possibility that some of the team didn't make it. 

Marcus’ father was arrested. That changes some things. But not as much as would have been expected because Marcus wasn't ever actually that close to his father and he wasn't in You-Know-Who’s inner circle so he doesn't get as long In Azkaban as some of them. Oliver’s known this since fifth year -- it's something that pulls at him sometimes, that his boyfriend is connected to Dark Magic, but it's his father, not him, and so Oliver learns to live with it. 

So things go back to normal. The league starts up again now that half its players aren’t running from Voldemort and the other half aren’t doing whatever they can to help those in need. Oliver had been part of the Order’s division Apparating Muggleborns across the country and across the continent. He doesn’t regret his job, anything to keep people safe, but it’s left a bad taste in his mouth every time he Apparates. He’s just glad to be back on his broom, back to playing games for a living, nothing more serious than beating Marcus and winning the league.

He bumps into Angelina Johnson on his way back from an interview for the Daily Prophet a couple of weeks before the season kicks off. 

It’s impossible to offer condolences for someone who was so full of life. He smiles at her and asks how she’s doing and she shrugs and says that Quidditch is getting her through, keeping her busy.  

“We’re planning a charity tournament at Hogwarts,” Angelina says, sweeping her hair over her shoulder. “Spread the word.”

Oliver doesn’t ask if that includes Slytherins even though he wouldn’t be surprised if she knew about him and Marcus already -- they haven’t been keeping it as quiet as they probably should and the Quidditch network is tiny. 

Instead he waits until he gets home and then he drops onto the couch beside a stretched out, sleeping Marcus. Oliver waits until he wakes up in the slow, disgruntled way he has like he’s angry at the world for pulling him from his sleep and then he presses a kiss to his mouth and tells him about the tournament, pausing at parts he expects Marcus to object to and then carrying on with little surprise when he doesn’t. 

“A charity tournament?” he says when Oliver has finished his pitch, his voice low and gravelly. “This Potter’s idea?” 

“That’s my Seeker you’re talking about,” Oliver replies, finger nipping at Marcus’s side. He allows it to be caught in a hand as he continues. “No, I think it was everyone’s. It’s a good idea -- it’ll suit everyone.” 

“Will we be playing in Houses?” And this is where Marcus’ forehead dips and he shifts uncomfortably under Oliver because he’s expecting little to no Slytherins to turn up and leave him on a team by himself, a Chaser against the school. 

“M’not sure. I think Angelina says they’ll be mixed.” 

Marcus snorts. “Inter-House friendship --s’what that fucking Hat kept banging on about.” 

“It’s worked for us,” Oliver points out, smirking when Marcus agrees by tracing his hand along Oliver’s back and pulling him closer against him. It’s getting late, they should start thinking about dinner, but Oliver’s happy to lie here a while longer. 

“True.” Marcus hums a sound deep in his throat as he thinks it all over. “Okay. I’ll come.” 

Oliver laughs, that competitive bubble swelling inside of him. “We’re gonna win.”

“Course we are -- we’re the best fucking players that school’s ever seen, Oliver.”

Which, yeah, is maybe pushing it a bit but Oliver doesn’t question it. 

 

.

 

No one says a word when Oliver turns up to the tournament with Marcus Flint by his side. Everyone greets Oliver warmly; his old team is spread across Britain now, a good number on professional teams, and the pride that Oliver feels bursts across his cheeks wide enough that Marcus rolls his eyes and says that he’ll be back in a minute, he has people to catch up with too. Oliver watches him join Theodore Nott and Adrian Pucey over by the stands, Terence Higgs wandering over to say hi a moment later.

“Hi, Oliver,” Katie calls, walking over with Cho Chang. “How’ve you been?”

“Not bad, you?” 

She shrugs, the standard response still. “Ready for your first match? I think we’re playing you in a couple of months.” 

“Should be an interesting match,” Oliver grins. He’d heard Katie had been signed by the Holyhead Harpies. It’s odd playing against his old teammates. “Have you been playing much, Cho?”

During the war Cho had been a trainee Healer in Oliver’s division so he’s gotten to know her fairly well but there are some things that aren’t really discussed under the conditions they were in, recreational Quidditch being one of them. “Not particularly,” she says. “My brother plays over in France so when he’s home for the weekend we have a game in the garden but that’s it -- it was never something I was going to do after here,” which is a shame because Oliver was always impressed with her tactics and her sheer determination whenever Gryffindor played Ravenclaw.

“We’re all on the same team today,” Katie says, waving a list in the air in front of Oliver. Oliver takes it from her and sure enough there’s his name along with Katie, Cho, Marcus, Malcolm Preece a Hufflepuff from Oliver’s year, George Weasley and Jimmy Peakes. Oliver doesn’t know Jimmy Peakes but apart from that they’re a strong side. He has a good feeling about this. 

Marcus eyes up his team with the same amount of suspicion as the rest of the team are giving him. Oliver doesn’t want to get in the middle of anything, he doesn’t want to take sides, and so he stands with George and waits for everyone to cool off so they can start talking tactics. He rolls onto the balls of his feet and bounces from right to left, impatient. 

“You haven’t changed a bit, Olly,” George says. It’s the first time Oliver has heard him speak since before the final battle and it’s a shock to hear how quiet he is, like his throat is tired of the lump sitting in it at all hours of the day. “Think we’ll win?” 

And Oliver can do this. He can talk Quidditch till the werewolves come home. “I dunno,” he says honestly. “Harry’s grabbed a good bunch of players. I’ve heard a lot of good things about your sister.”

George dips his head in acknowledgement. “She’s amazing. Don’t tell her I said that,” he says quickly, a small smile flashing at Oliver. “She’s thinking about trying out for the Harpies soon.”

“They’ll be lucky to have her,” Oliver says. “We’re always looking for Chasers too.”

“I’ll pass that on.”

A pause follows that stretches out long enough for them to catch Jimmy Peakes hesitantly step closer to Marcus and say, “I came to the league final a couple of years ago when you beat Puddlemere -- you were amazing.” 

Marcus smirks, always that big Quidditch player. “Thanks, kid.”

“I’ve never seen goals scored like that before.” 

“Yeah it’s a whole different game from here,” Marcus says then he ruins it a little when he adds, “I hope you’re a decent enough Beater, kid, I want to win this.”

At this George raises an eyebrow at Oliver. “So, you and Flint?” 

“He’s not like you think,” Oliver says which is his default answer when someone asks him about Marcus. 

And George doesn’t even question him he just shrugs and smiles. “I’m not judging, mate. Think we all sensed the tension during your handshakes --”

“Shut up,” Oliver says goodnaturedly. He sobers quickly, though, keen to get across what needs to be said. “George, this is okay, isn’t it? What we’re doing here?” 

“It’s the best thing we could do,” George replies, turning to face the pitch which is swarming with students past and present, all teams mixing together to create new and unusual combinations, everyone gathered to remember those who aren’t with them in the best way they know how.  

“Let’s go win this,” Oliver says, clapping George on the shoulder and turning to the team behind him. 

“You’re not the only captain on this team,” Marcus says obnoxiously but Oliver ignores that in favour of throwing an arm around his shoulders and leading him over to the pitch. “Hey, it’s not me you’re slighting, Preece is raging.”

“Get on your broom, Flint,” Preece tells him making Oliver laugh because Marcus was worried he wouldn’t be treated the same as the rest of the Houses but he’s slotting in just fine. Anyway, if no one else comes out of this liking him he knows he has a fan in Jimmy Peakes. 

Oliver kicks off from the ground, the dirt beneath his feet and the air around him the same as when he left four years ago. It’s nostalgic and it’s bittersweet and it’s  _ fun _ .  
  


.

 

(and one) 

Marcus plays the same as Oliver has always known him; he’s fast and he’s aggressive and the Magpies have only made him stealthier and sneakier, whipping the Quaffle past Ron Weasley more times than Oliver can count. He fouls a few times just to make sure Hogwarts remembers who he is but apart from that he’s a great player. He, Katie and Malcolm are a tight line up the pitch; to look at them you wouldn’t guess this was their first time ever playing together. 

Oliver’s not bad either. Alicia, Roger Davies, and Cadwallader are as strong a unit as his team but he’s not known as one of the best Keepers in the country for nothing.

Cho catches the Snitch after twenty minutes; raising her hand in triumph only feet away from Oliver as Adrian Pucey loops around the opposite end of the pitch. Oliver whoops in excitement, circling Cho with Katie and Jimmy as the crowd below cheer for their various Houses involved.

Marcus catches him on the way down, his face bright and happy. He holds a hand out and Oliver meets it in a high-five and he thinks that it’s not bad at all being on the same side as Marcus after so long being the opposition.

Marcus punches the air with the childish glee Oliver is usually the only one privy to. Oliver beams.   
  


.

 

They progress to the final but Harry catches the Snitch before Cho and they lose by 90 points. Speeches are made, some of them sombre, others celebratory, all of them stressing the meaning of today and the amount they’ve raised for the rebuilding of the castle, of the country, of so many people’s lives. 

As dusk settles over the pitch and lights are conjured to float among the crowd, Oliver and Marcus say goodbye to their little makeshift team, making promises to meet up some time soon for a drink, and then they walk into Hogsmeade before Apparating home, the noisy buzz of the stadium vanishing with a  _ crack _ . 

“I liked being on your side,” Oliver says, kicking off his shoes and collapsing onto the couch, his bones tired and his hand sore. The ache following a match is one of his favourite feelings.

“You’re always on my side, Ol,” Marcus says back reflexively and then they both groan. 

“That was really extremely very fucking mushy,” Oliver says, throwing back his head and laughing when Marcus drops down beside him and shoves his feet in his lap. “Marcus -- oh my God --”

“Shut  _ up _ ,” Marcus insists, cheeks flushing. “I didn’t mean it, alright?” 

“Yeah you did.”

“Well, you are. That’s what Gryffindors are like, always so fucking stubborn, always insisting on --” 

“Hey, Marcus, stop.” Oliver reaches for Marcus’s face, smiles when Marcus leans into the hand on his chin. “I’m on your side and you’re on mine, right?” He nods, eyes that dark sombre way they go when his whole attention is focused on you and you alone. They stay like that for a moment, Marcus’s breathing slowing to match Oliver’s, and then Oliver breaks and grins. “Know who else is on your side, Marcus? Jimmy Peakes. He's a  _ big _ fan.”

Marcus tackles Oliver to the ground, his elbows and knees jabbing Oliver everywhere as he struggles for the upper-hand. 

“I'm a big fan too,” he manages to get out when Marcus has him in a headlock.

He catches Marcus’s grin under his arm. “You fucking tosser. Stop saying stuff like that.”

“You started it,” Oliver laughs. “You said --” the rest of it muffled when Marcus presses his hand over his mouth, undeterred when Oliver licks his palm. 

They both fall back so they’re flat on the floor. Marcus lets his hand fall from Oliver’s mouth, dropping it to lay on his chest. This is how they do it, with wrestling and insults and childish arguments and the easy familiarity of lying beside each other at the end of a long day. 

This is how they live. 

  
  



End file.
